Aerial
by zarah joyce
Summary: "And yet you can't help the joy inside you when you catch glimpses of her, fleeting as they may be." Wang Yeo in three lifetimes. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

You are god; you are emperor.

Your word is law and life.

And yet you think, at times, that this existence is punishment you do not deserve.

* * *

You are a _child_ , you think. You are young. You have not yet lived for so long that wisdom has yet to come to you.

And yet he says - they _all_ say - that you are worthy of the throne. You are king. You are god.

You wish to contradict them - to say that you are not, you are _not_ \- and yet you don't.

Your word is law, and law dictates that you should be _wise_.

* * *

You see her, and your face splits into an expression that feels as foreign as it is wonderful.

She is balancing delicate cups on her shoulders, and she is so careful in her actions, graceful and young and-

- _beautiful_.

The general's sister, you are told.

Your wife-to-be, you are told.

You catch her eye, and she pauses, cups hanging precariously on her person. She looks at you and sees your smile and _then_ she falters.

The cups fall and break; she looks so embarrassed you can't help but laugh.

And at that moment, you pray-

-that your life with her will be full of it.

* * *

There are many things you have yet to do.

In all the earthly ways you are king, and yet time is one thing you not in abundance of.

You have known all your life that your desires should not come first. The health of your land is your happiness. Its wealth, your pleasure.

And yet you can't help the joy inside you when you catch glimpses of her, fleeting as they may be.

* * *

 _You are heavy_ , you tell her.

And yet her presence makes you feel light, inside.

It is night, you think. Your duties are done. You are a husband, and she - your wife.

And so you reach for her, and she comes to you in grace, in beauty.

She is so _soft_. Warm.

And you think that if she is death, then still, _willingly_ , you will come to her.

* * *

You send her trinkets in both gold and precious stone.

 _Sorry_ , you tell her silently with each one.

 _I'm sorry I cannot spend more time with you, my love._

 _Soon I will come to you._

You fool yourself into thinking she accepts your sentiments without question.

It is her duty, as queen.

 _I love you._

* * *

She waves at you, and, keen as your eyes are, you see that on her finger-

-is the ring you have given her last.

She smiles and you respond in kind, and your heart is so full it is close to bursting.

 _This is love,_ is it not?

* * *

She is so _soft_. Warm.

And welcoming as you draw her into your arms.

* * *

You are god; you are emperor.

Your word is law and life.

No other man shall be loved as you are.

 **No one.**

* * *

 _Will you live as my woman? Or as the traitor's sister?_

 _The woman who loves you... is the traitor's sister._

Her words seal her fate, and you will not falter.

You can _not_.

An emperor-

* * *

You see it in your mind's eye - the arrow that had pierced her heart.

The ground wet and bright with her life's blood.

And you left her to die like a common criminal. Your beloved queen - a traitor to the king.

You lie each night, reliving her death - your last memory of her life.

You lie each night knowing that she had chosen her brother over you. Your queen - who did not love you as you have loved her.

Her words had sealed her fate.

But it was your decree that had her killed.

* * *

Years pass, and still her memory haunts you.

Soon you cease wanting for anything. Your land and people can wither and die for all you care. It's a selfish, cruel thing, because sometimes you can indulge in something selfish and cruel. You are _king_. Who are they to say that you are wrong?

You can feel the days drag on, and yet she hasn't come - your death.

And so you draw her likeness in the hopes of summoning her, even if each stroke feels like an arrow through your gut.

* * *

 _I love you,_ you tell her.

 _I'm sorry._

Her eyes stare straight ahead, but in your mind's eye you can see her - graceful and young and beautiful.

 _I love you._

 _I'm sorry._

* * *

 _I thought it will be better if we meet halfway._

You drink the concoction even as you know what is in it.

* * *

You are god; you are emperor.

Your word is law and life.

You are king; you are wise.

And so you know that this death is punishment for the wrongs you have done, in this life.


	2. Chapter 2

You are nothing, no one.

Merely a bridge from this life to the next.

You guide souls, urge them, to take the last step towards oblivion.

Towards a place you, yourself, have not yet seen.

* * *

 _Grim Reaper,_ you are called.

Your designation and occupation. Your only identity, for you have no name.

You are, after all, not worthy of one.

You choose not to waste time wondering what great sin you've done in your past life to earn such a fate.

You choose to _work_ , instead.

(you also watch dramas during your spare time, but **shhh**

no one has to know.

* * *

in your defense; who in their right mind doesn't?)

* * *

You have need for food, clothing. Shelter. You have preferences. Desires.

You are closer to being human than you are not.

But you have no death, for you only bring it.

You don't wonder _why_ this is. Time, after all, is one thing you are not in abundance of.

The paperwork needed for each soul grazing your fingers is _immense_ , and you tend to them without question.

There are penalties for work undone, granted even to those who are merely half alive.

* * *

Millenniums pass, and your mission remains the same; you bring people to a place you yourself have yet to see.

Their names and faces are blurry now, to your mind.

You serve tea to individuals; you serve tea to whole families.

Your room always feels so small, when you do.

Sometimes you handle couples, and more often that not they are raging at each other. Warring, even in the afterlife.

You are fiercely glad you are beyond _that_ , at least.

But sometimes you handle couples who so loved each other they choose to face death, unflinching. _Together_.

And you can't help but wonder...

* * *

Your new house is acceptable, even if the goblin infesting it isn't.

You have no intention to leave, however. You _signed a lease_ , a binding agreement. That house is _yours_ for so long number of years.

You choose to display your iron will, even at the face of a being who might be, could be, _possibly_ be more powerful than you.

You choose not to yield.

You. Will. _Not_.

* * *

 _Can_ you even kill a goblin?

Or perhaps annoy him enough to make him want to leave you alone?

 _No_ , you can't kill a goblin.

But you have the power to irritate him beyond any mortal comprehension, and this greatly entertains you.

* * *

Your house soon feels crowded, with the addition of the goblin's bride and the oft times presence of the goblin's nephew.

Sometimes you dread coming home, because you have little energy left, and facing a hateful goblin and his cohorts require massive amounts of it.

But sometimes-

(no, you did not just think you are happy with them.

you did _not_ , and no one can make you say otherwise.)

* * *

That bridge is just one of the many you cross in your everyday dealings.

And yet something along it makes you pause.

The sun's light reflects off a beautiful ring, and, upon seeing it, you can't help the urge to take it, make it yours - even as you have no use for such frivolous jewelry. Yet you reach for it, prepared to pay for as much as it is worth-

But it's taken before you do.

You straighten yourself, wondering who in their right mind will dare cross a _Grim Reaper_ -

-and are wholly unprepared for the way your world tilts off its axis, never to regain its balance ever again.

She is, quite simply, the loveliest woman you've ever seen - and you've lived your unlife long enough to know it.

But what surprises you is the intensity of your reaction to her.

You're sure - _so sure_ \- that time had suddenly stopped for you. Either that, or your breathing did.

You feel... you just feel _wrong_ , somehow. Shattered, deep inside.

Your heart feels so full it's close to bursting - and you don't even know why that is.

You've had many experiences with beautiful women, with loud women, with straightforward women. All who passed from this world to the next. All who lived and breathed in a world you do not belong in.

But this one upsets the structure of your ordered existence, and why is that?

 _Why_ is that?

* * *

You encounter her several times after that, and each meeting feels so incredibly... brief.

She asks you questions you are unprepared to answer - because they _have_ no answers.

 _Who are you? What's your number? What's your religion?_

 _Are you unemployed?_

 _What's your real name?_

Each encounter leaves you rattled to your core, and you retreat into the solitude of your house, with an equally miserable goblin as your company.

Her questions unnerve you, because they are things you _have no right_ to ask yourself.

You're a mere Grim Reaper; a bridge, a tool. A servant with a sin you've committed before.

You don't forget this; you _never_ do.

And yet in her presence, you yearn to.

She's possibly the brightest star in your lowly existence; you know you have no right to make her yours.

And yet...

Perhaps it's her fault, for being so beautiful. For showing interest in one as unworthy as you. For enjoying your company, even if you act so, so foolish and awkward and all in between.

For telling you she wants to see you again, and again, and _again_ , in spite of it.

* * *

You've memorized her features that by now you can draw her from memory.

You love her mouth the most. How her smile can make you feel full and light, inside.

But you are also especially fond of her eyes, at how expressive they are, how with them she can clearly convey her excitement and pleasure.

She haunts your every waking moment, and it's the most welcomed thing.

Everything you do with her feels like a reward.

A welcomed reprieve you don't deserve.

* * *

You've made fun of the goblin and his infatuation so often it's become as normal to you as breathing.

But now that you're experiencing the same pains as he is, it's no longer as funny.

And it _is_ a pain. Thinking of her. Wanting her, the way you never wanted for anything.

Longing for her, even if it's a feeling that's as foreign as it is wonderful to you.

 _This is love_ , is it not?

It's caused you much sorrow, knowing that what you desire can never be. Not when you are making up stories to appease her curiosity, and lying through your teeth to get near her.

Not when you are erasing her memories to keep _what_ you are a secret.

You are, quite simply, violating the rules you've upheld for so long. All for a selfish, cruel dream.

Is it worth it? Breaking reason _just_ to be with her?

You have a truthful answer to that question, at least.

(this is love, is it not?)

* * *

Soon another woman comes to you, in the form of an intimate, hand-drawn portrait.

She is young, lovely. Graceful and serene, even on paper.

A _queen_ , you soon learn.

And yet the sight of her had you clutching your chest, as though your heart is being clawed out of it.

Your tears flow free, bubbling from a well of regret and anguish inside you.

You don't know her; and yet your soul aches like it should.

 _Why_ is that?

* * *

Two women evoke such great emotions out of you.

But only one of them can make you laugh.

* * *

You see that she's wearing the ring you've given her, and it makes you wish you placed it there.

Yet you well know what will happen once you touch her.

And so you dare not to, even as you burn with longing.

* * *

But she is as unpredictable as she is beautiful, and despite your caution she gets an opening; she grabs your hand when you least expect it.

The doorway to her life's path reveals itself to you, and you see in your mind's eye:

 _The woman in the hand-drawn portrait. The arrow that had pierced her heart. The ground wet and bright with her life's blood._

In that awful moment _you know_ that the woman you love and the murdered queen share the same soul.

It leaves you weak, this knowledge. This encounter. More so because you see her past so well, so clearly, as if you had been there to witness it.

And so you ask yourself...

... _were_ you?

* * *

You're a mere Grim Reaper; a bridge, a tool. A slave of a sin you have committed in your previous life.

You have no name; you have no memory. But those around you _do_.

You have no power to make yourself remember the past. But you have the ability to grant it to another.

And you have to know. You _have_ to know-

-what your role in her death had been.

And so you reach for her, and pull her in.

She is as soft as you dreamed her. Warm.

And now awake to recollections left buried by her death.

You're almost afraid to ask: _Was I there_?

Her tears flow freely from a well of regret and anguish, and at that moment your fears are validated:

Whether through the actions of the foolish king or the traitorous eunuch, you **are** the cause of this soul's pain.

And so you grant her oblivion, meant to soothe away her sorrows - even as it will stoke yours for eternity.

 _forget about me._

Perhaps your absence from her life will finally give her a happy ending.

* * *

Your actions soon haunt you, and you are granted a curse: your memories, vivid and true.

And your world fractures beyond your comprehension.

* * *

The decree you had uttered tasted foul and bitter, much like the concoction regularly fed to you.

She was the first of many to fall, that fateful day - and the memory of your queen's death still breaks you.

The goblin's fate - your fault as well.

All because you chose to believe a snake over those who truly loved you.

All because you chose to act like a god when you are merely a king.

What a _cowardly, worthless_ emperor you had been.

And now you know that you deserve the goblin's vengeance, in whichever form he chooses to bestow it.

You fear his anger. Yet you await your punishment, for it shall save you from the hellish memories now inflaming your soul.

 _kill me. finish me._

 _let everything end with me._

* * *

But the goblin will _not_.

 _This_ is his revenge.

* * *

You were a Grim Reaper; merely half alive but with purpose.

Now, however, you are not even that.

You are less than nothing, less than no one.

And if you thought yourself unworthy of her before-

How much more _now_ that you know the price she'd paid for loving you?

* * *

And yet you seek her, even after tampering with her memory.

(just another sin you cannot help but commit).

You keep your distance, even as her nearness destroys you.

But, like always, she manages to surprise you.

This beautiful, unpredictable woman, who not only retained her memories, but - somehow, despite everything - was also _glad_ to see you.

The one person who loved you, until your decree had her killed.

Isn't fate such a cruel, fickle thing?

She reaches for you, and still she is so kind, even if her words are not:

 _i choose not to love you, in this lifetime. this is my punishment to you._

 _goodbye, your majesty._

You tell yourself that you deserve this pain. You deserve this sorrow. For all that you have done in your previous life.

And yet, selfishly:

Don't you wish someone out there will tell you: _you've suffered enough?_

* * *

The rest of your existence drag by in a hazy blur.

The goblin returns to life to a world who eagerly forgot him.

Except _you_ , his king and sworn enemy.

Isn't fate a cruel thing?

Soon you are granted the goblin's forgiveness, his blessing to see his sister.

And his kindness will forever be your secret shame, despite welcoming it.

* * *

You seek her out once more, and it's not long before she comes to you.

She meets with you, a stranger once again, because fate is a cruel thing.

She tells you her name, and it's a distant echo of your past: _S.U.N.N.Y._

But now you have a real name to give her when she asks: _Wang Yeo._

It feels like an unburdening, the way the syllables roll off your tongue.

But its significance is lost upon her, because she does not know you.

She does not know all that you've done.

She waves you goodbye, and leaves without looking back.

 _it was nice seeing you._

Even after all these years, her departure still has the power to crush you.

You want to run after her. Hold her. Beg her forgiveness.

But you have no right.

Not until your punishment is due.

* * *

One day, it _is_.

And you don't know how or what to feel.

You are leaving behind all that you know, to go to a place you, yourself, have not yet seen.

How does one prepare for something like _that_?

* * *

But there is still the matter of the last soul to guide towards oblivion, before the same thing is bestowed upon you.

You open the card, and-

* * *

The door to your tea room opens, and you're sure - _so sure_ \- that time suddenly stopped for you.

She comes to you in grace, in beauty, and you feel light, inside.

 _i miss you._

Your queen smiles upon you, and it feels like absolution. Like your sins have been washed away, leaving you clean, worthy again.

You place the ring upon her finger, and take her hand to guide her towards the door. Towards the end.

But she will not be alone; never again.

With you, she will face death, unflinching.

And if fate will be kind, you two shall be reborn.

 _Together_.


	3. Chapter 3

You are dour, people say.

Quiet and gloomy, with a no-nonsense attitude that speaks highly of your sense of humor - or, more precisely, lack thereof.

You shrug off their comments and go your own way.

You have work to do.

* * *

But it's not that you're unfriendly, per se.

Merely that your patience is paper-thin, at certain instances. At certain people.

You like being alone, and for a good reason:

No one can tell you what to do.

* * *

Your profession takes most of your life.

The paperwork needed for each criminal case you're handling is _immense_ , and you tend to them without question.

And yet, despite your dedication, they all tell you when they first meet you: you must be in the wrong line of work.

A detective can't be as "pretty" as you, they say. You're better off being a model or an actor, they say.

What a bunch of nonsense, you think.

The fact that you're the farthest thing one can resemble a police is something you use to your advantage. You can seem nonthreatening until the suspect is within your reach. _Then_ you pounce.

Your accomplishments speak about how well-suited you are to your job. All the criminals you've caught testified at how you managed to fool them - until it's too late.

You'e good at acting awkward and foolish, they say.

Man, maybe you _should_ have been an actor after all.

* * *

It's not fair to say you are a loner; a man without any hobbies. Oh no.

Sometimes, you draw. Sometimes you cook.

Oh, and you watch dramas in your spare time.

 _A lot._

They pull you in, incite your imagination like no other. You like anticipating what will happen next - whether the daughter will know who her real mother is, or if the alien will choose to leave his human lover behind, or when will the poor maid overcome her trials.

You don't tell anyone this tidbit about yourself.

It's not like anyone asks, anyway.

* * *

But if they did, you'll tell them it all started late one night. After a long shift at work, you turn on the television, waiting for the white noise to lull you to sleep.

You're flicking through channels without any particular show in mind, when suddenly your world tilts off its axis, never to regain balance ever again.

The actress you chanced upon is, quite simply, the loveliest woman you've ever seen - and that's not even an exaggeration.

You find yourself watching the drama she's in. Soon you're searching for the show's name, and, more precisely _hers_ , and you feel absurdly glad once you find them.

She's been starring in dramas for a few years, and why is it that you only saw her _now_?

* * *

You don't miss a single episode of her drama. Concurrently, you search for - and watch - her earlier shows. And when her latest drama's season ended you, absurdly enough, anxiously await word on what her next project will be.

Once it's announced, you know that of course you'll be watching _that_ as well.

...And _they said_ you don't have a hobby.

* * *

One day, you come to work only to find the atmosphere quite odd.

You soon find out why.

Your superior gathers your group and announces that his brother, a TV director, is looking for a consultant from the police station. His show will delve into the dangers of undercover work, and he'll need a real detective to give them some tips on how to make things more realistic.

The hair at your nape stand at rapt attention when he mentioned the drama's name.

Even before your superior asks who among your group is interested, your hand is already up in the air. _I'll do it._

The silence engulfing your group is palpable, at that moment.

 _Lee Hyuk, do you even know what you're getting into?_

You shrug and tell your boss yes, but you'll appreciate getting more information on what you should prepare. Yes, you know the show. Yes, you're up to date with the latest episodes - they're saved in your phone. Does anyone want to see? You can even share them if they like, though they'd need to have a big enough memory card with them-

You feel mildly insulted at the incredulous looks you get from everyone.

What, can't a guy watch dramas in his phone nowadays?

* * *

You show up at the shooting location the day after you've been given clearance.

It's a cold, cold morning, and you realize belatedly the leather jacket you're wearing isn't at all adequate for the weather.

You would have thought to bring warmer clothes - if only you were thinking straight, earlier that day. Simply put, you _weren't_.

You're nervous, oddly enough. And because of that you grabbed the first thing you saw before going out the door, never thinking too far ahead.

You're still nervous now, because there's a probable chance that you're going to see her in person.

 _Today_.

And, well, how can you prepare for something like _that_?

A car honks behind you. Irritated, you look at the driver-

-and your mind blissfully blanks out.

 _You look cold. Do you want to come inside for a moment?_

You know that smile. It's the smile that haunts your dreams sometimes. And it's aimed at you, now.

...uhm.

 _Hello?_ She waves a hand to get your attention, and you blink in response.

...uhm...?

* * *

You feel her eyes on you, and you think it'll be in your best interest to act cool, collected - before you say something that'll make you seem like a fool.

She asks you several questions, but you find yourself unable to answer each one. Your focus is on keeping still and not making any unnecessary actions that might scare her away.

She sighs, loud and clear, and gets out of the car, but not before telling you that you can stay inside for however long you like.

...you really are an idiot, you tell yourself silently, as you finally find the courage to look at her as she leaves.

From the confines of her car you observe her actions. She chats with her coworkers, laughs with them, and the gazes of those she interacts with are nothing short of worshipful.

And you think she really _does_ live up to her screen name, as she spreads light and warmth wherever she goes.

You look farther ahead, and see that her leading man is straightening himself, as though mentally preparing for the moment she comes to him.

(you _really_ hate that guy. he's had too many kissing scenes with her.)

And, well, you just have to act.

 _Coolly_.

* * *

The next thing you know, you're grabbing her hand and handcuffing her and-

(oh god what are you even doing)

At her affronted look you respond by saying the spiel police are authorized to say. Didn't she ask you this, in the car?

Oh, she's only asking you to show her how to arrest people, not to actually handcuff her? And the criminal is over there?

... _well_.

And _of course_ you tell her that she looks more like a criminal than that other woman did.

...This is really a fine day to be you, isn't it?

She asks you another question, and being the idiot that you are, you tell her the first thing that comes to your mind.

If she looks affronted before, she's close to homicidal by now.

 _How dare you. What makes you think I'm a criminal?_

And then her tone shifts to something close to playful:

 _Did I steal your heart, or something?_

(you're not being obvious... are you? _shitohshit_ )

In an attempt to detract the conversation from that angle, you tell her straight that she looks like the hostess of a gambling den.

In context, your observation makes sense. In your defense, you have handled cases where the hostess was usually the most beautiful member of a criminal group. So you mean it as some sort of compliment, when you say it like that.

You don't tell her this fact, however, so of course you end up infuriating her even more.

It's a wonder she hasn't thrown you out of the set.

But your fears are soon validated when she calls out to the director, complaining that you had been rude to her.

Why yes, _yes_ you were.

Once the director explains your presence in the set, you try to rectify the situation by telling her your name and where you're from, and offering your hand to her.

Because you're cool like that.

And, well, because it really won't look good for you to get fired from this job. _That you volunteered for_.

She stares at you, and for a wild moment you think she won't shake your hand.

...you really blew this one, didn't you?

Until she does, and it's the longest handshake you've given anyone.

Her hand, you realize, is so _soft_. And warm, despite the temperature. You don't want to let go, but you do, and it's the hardest thing you've done that day.

The director tells you two to work well together before leaving. You stare at her impassively, to make it seem like it's the last thing on this earth you want to do.

(because you're cool like that.)

She inches her chin up, and surprises you by asking, out of the blue, for your business card. _I want to check the place out._

 _It's not a restaurant,_ you tell her, frowning.

And she says, _I want to know if you really are who you say you are. Is Lee Hyuk your real name? Are you truly a detective? Maybe you're just pretending to be one. Do you know how already many tried doing it, just to get near me?_

At first you think she's being conceited, and you scoff at her accusations. Yet when she wiggles her fingers towards you, you find yourself reaching for your wallet, like you're compelled at a molecular level to do as she says. _Happy, now?_

She looks inordinately pleased when she receives your card. _I'll call you. But if you don't answer my calls, I'll kill you. Okay?_

...That's not something you should say to a detective, you say, summoning every inch and fiber of the Grim Reaper in you.

But she merely smiles at you, and even blows you a kiss. _Arrest me, then._

* * *

Your conversations go like this:

 _Has anyone ever told you you're too handsome to be a detective?_

 _...maybe. Can we go back to-_

 _It's your hair, you see. Look how naturally curly it is? Some people need to have work done with their hair to make it look like this._

 _I'll appreciate it if you let go of my hair. Now, let's talk about CCTVs-_

 _And your lips! How did you even get a perfect cupid's bow lips like that? And it's so red. Like... it's begging to be kissed. One of these days I might just lose my mind and actually give in to the urge._

 _-what?_

 _Admit it. You had surgery, didn't you. No one on this earth is born looking as good as you do!_

 _I'm a detective. I don't need surgeries to look good._

 _Yeah, you just need to breathe to look handsome. You know, you should just become a commercial model. You can sell me anything, anytime. Or! Maybe you should be an actor like me. I can make you a leading man in no time. What do you say?_

 _I say let's go back to discussing CCTVs. There's this-_

 _But, hmm, if you become an actor, they'll probably pair you with other actresses, and that's not good. I'd rather you be my leading man. What do you say?_

You say nothing, of course. How do you even respond to that?

* * *

You go back to work one day, and suddenly everyone is your friend.

 _How is she? Is she as beautiful, up close? Do you get to hang out with her? I bet she smells good, doesn't she?_

 _Man if I were in your shoes I would have swept her off her feet and kissed her real, real slow, and then I'll start to undress her-_

The last comment has you looking at your coworker like he's scum beneath your feet.

 _Talk like that again and I'll have you executed._

* * *

Your other conversations go like this:

 _So. Single? Married? Widower?_

 _What do you think?_

 _I'll say it's almost impossible for you not to be married, but then I don't see any ring on your finger. Maybe you just don't like wearing it?_

 _I'm not married._

 _What, are all the women you've met blind?_

 _What about you, then? What about all the men you've met?_

 _Me, married? Don't be silly. My career would be ruined! Besides, I'm still waiting for my king._

 _...your king._

 _Yes. A king who will sweep me off my feet?_

 _You still believe in that kind of thing?_

 _My fortuneteller told me I was a queen in one of my previous lives. Isn't it right for me to wait for my king?_

 _And what if your king doesn't come for you in this life?_

 _Oh, I don't know. I can always settle for a handsome detective._

She's smiling when she tells you this, and your heart feels so close to bursting it's almost painful.

You don't know if she's teasing you, but a part of you wonders:

What if...?

* * *

Your contract with the director soon ends, and you don't know how to feel.

You walk up to her, your steps slow, measured, intending to say your goodbye.

But as always she surprises you; she meets you halfway.

She gives you a signed picture, and behind it - her phone number.

There's also a very visible kiss mark underneath it.

 _I look forward to receiving your calls, detective._

 _And if you don't call me, I'll kill you._

You fight the urge to smile at her teasing. _Didn't I tell you it's not a proper thing to say to a detective?_

She winks at you and says, _feel free to arrest me then._

 _After you ask me out for coffee._

* * *

So you do, being that you're compelled at a molecular level to do as she says.

So you ask her out, again and again and _again_ and-

* * *

You're staring at her picture when someone sits close to you.

 _She's pretty,_ he says casually, as though you've been friends for years. _Is she your lover?_

 _I want her to be,_ you answer honestly. And then you look at the person you're speaking to and demand: _who are you?_

He smiles.

* * *

Sometimes, your conversations with her go like this:

 _If I hold your hand, are you going to kill me?_

 _I'm going to kill you if you don't._

So you reach for her, and she comes to you in grace, in beauty, and you feel light, inside.

(this is love, isn't it?

then again, you've known for quite some time now: _it is._ )

* * *

 _I liked you first,_ is your confession.

 _You stole my heart_ , is hers.

You come to her, and do the one thing you've always wanted to do:

-kiss her, in front of everyone.

And she is so soft. Warm.

And smiling, when you're done.

 _Does this mean this is our first day together?_

And she pulls you in, without waiting for your response.

It's not like you both need it, anyway.

(this is love, after all.)


End file.
